I told myself that (to avoid showing you all just how aggressively sarcastic I am) I would do a rave this week to contrast last week’s extreme cynicism.
But then Monday happened.
I got off the bus around 3:30 and had about an hour and a half to kill before meeting two friends for dinner, so I decided to clean my car.
Now, for those of you that have remained blissfully unaware of my dirty little secret up until this point, buckle up.
My car is about one road trip away from needing a new interior. There are socks, water bottles, jelly beans, mismatched shoes, paper bags, two full Manitoba Hydro rain suits, baseball gloves, and other assorted surprises EVERYWHERE. I am not proud of this, but I’ve written it off as a character flaw and am now comfortable answering with a half shrug when my friend Courtney screams “HOW CAN YOU LIVE LIKE THIS?!” every time she gets in.
Anyway, Monday was the day; it was time to do something about this garage sale with an engine that I spent so much time in. I pulled around to the BFI bins behind the coffee shop I work at, turned up the music, and climbed into the not-so-roomy backseat of my little two-door car.
I sat there happily cleaning and singing to myself for about 15 minutes, in no way prepared for the soda suicide that was about to occur. I noticed a two litre of ginger ale (don’t ask) wedged under the front passenger seat of my car and knew I was never going to drink it considering how long it had been there (seriously, guys, don’t ask), so I decided to get rid of it.
As I pulled the bottle out from under the seat something punctured it, which, to a carbonated plastic bottle that has been bumbling around on the floor of a vehicle for God knows how long, is essentially the equivalent of pulling the pin on a grenade. It erupted immediately with an angry fizzing sound that has haunted my dreams all week and began to coat the inside of my car and the outside of my body in a sweet, sticky spray.
I sat there and screamed for what seemed like an eternity, and, finally, it occurred to me that I should get this bomb out of the vehicle. Luckily, my door was open, so I hurled the ginger ale out into the parking lot and sat back to collect myself. I. Was. Soaked. My my jeans and t-shirt were sopping wet and my hair felt like I had rolled around on the floor of Whiskey Dix. I caught my breath and, with shaking legs, stumbled out of the car.
Tip to tail in ginger ale and attracting more and more wasps by the second, the black SUV I had parked beside was in the same state I was. I got a damp cloth from work and tried to clean us both up, but it was no use. It would take more than a quick rinse to restore us to our former glory. Grabbing a pen and a sheet of paper from my notebook, I left an apology note and a toonie on the poor SUV’s windshield and drove home saturated in Canada Dry and self-pity.
Long story long, I am boycotting ginger ale, backseats, and Mondays. Or at least the combination of the three.
Thanks for reading!